The Choices I Wouldn’t Change

I wish I could tell you I’m one of those emotionally evolved adults who can glance at the past, extract a tidy life lesson, wipe his hands on his jeans, and stroll confidently into the future like a well-adjusted human being. But, I’m not that guy. I live in my head. I pace there. I replay old conversations like a director’s cut no one asked for. I rewrite entire chapters of my life in the shower, convinced that if I’d just said one different thing, chosen one different road, been a little braver, smarter, less of an idiot, everything would’ve turned out cleaner, shinier, more cinematic.

I’m very good at regret. Olympic-level, really.

But last night, while thinking about what to write, I tried something different. Instead of cataloging my mistakes like a Mormon Bishop tallying someones sins, I made a list of choices I wouldn’t change. Not even if you offered me a shiny red “undo” button and a lifetime supply of coffee. Decisions that, despite the mess, the collateral damage, and the occasional emotional hangover, made my life richer, stranger, and undeniably mine.

So here they are. No apologies. No footnotes. Just the good stuff.

Attending Northwest School of the Arts

When my family and I lived in North Carolina, I had the privilege of attending Northwest School of the Arts for high school. I was a troubled kid, restless, angry, desperate to belong to something without fully understanding what that something was. I didn’t squeeze every drop out of that experience the way I could have. I know that now. But NWSA cracked something open in me anyway.

It taught me compassion. It taught me taste. It taught me that creativity wasn’t just allowed, it was oxygen. More importantly, it showed me a world where people didn’t bend the knee to systems, churches, institutions, or neatly laminated expectations. People were loud, weird, unapologetic, and gloriously themselves. Some of the best people I’ve ever known came from that place, and a few of them are still in my life today. Being exposed to that kind of freedom as a teenager mattered more than I realized at the time. It gave me a reference point. A north star. A glimpse of the kind of life I’d spend years trying to build.

Choosing to serve a mission for the Mormon Church

Yeah. I know. Take a moment. Let it wash over you.

This one surprises people, but it’s true. Serving a mission exposed me to corners of the church I didn’t know existed. It planted questions in my mind, small at first, then loud, unruly, impossible-to-ignore questions. Ironically, without my mission, I might never have left the church at all. The experience didn’t reinforce my faith; it dismantled it, piece by piece.

It showed me the machinery behind the curtain. It showed me the cost. And eventually, it showed me the exit. Leaving was painful, but it was also necessary. The mission guaranteed that one day I’d be free of that toxic environment, and for that, I’m grateful. Sometimes the thing that saves you is the thing that breaks you open first.

Adopting Cordelia

By any rational metric, I had no business adopting a dog when I did. I was going through a divorce, broke, emotionally wrecked, and teetering on the edge of losing everything. But I was lonely. And there was a Craigslist ad that said she was free to the first male who wanted her, and she agreed.

I got in my car and drove. I stopped twice along the way, seriously considering turning around, because responsibility was the last thing I needed. But I kept going.

When I arrived, the foster parents opened the door and Cordelia came barreling out, wearing a full-toothed, tail-wagging grin. Two other men had already been there before me. She wanted nothing to do with them. She chose me. And that was that.

For years, it was just the two of us. There were times when I had to choose between feeding myself or feeding her, and I never hesitated. It was always her. We climbed mountains, explored national parks, slept on beaches, crossed state lines, and built a life that was better simply because she was in it. The day she died remains one of the hardest moments of my life. I miss her every single day. I suspect I always will. And I will forever be grateful that, somehow, in the middle of my unraveling, she chose me.

Taking up photography
I didn’t start photography for noble reasons. I started it in a desperate attempt to save a failing marriage. That didn’t work. The marriage ended anyway. But photography stayed.

It grew slowly, quietly—day by day, year by year—until it became something I couldn’t imagine my life without. It gave me a way to see the world differently, to frame chaos, to create meaning where none was obvious. It opened doors, introduced me to people, and gave me experiences I never would have had otherwise. It became a language. A lifeline. A way forward.

Marrying Leslie

After my divorce, I swore off marriage entirely. Hard no. I dated a little, but I was deeply, philosophically opposed to the institution. I once broke up with someone because I had a nightmare about being forced to marry her—and honestly, once you have that dream, the relationship is over. No recovery.

Then I met Leslie. And everything changed.

She was easy to talk to. I liked having her around. For the first time—maybe the first time ever—I felt safe in a relationship. I didn’t have to perform. I didn’t have to hide. I didn’t have to be anything other than myself. And somehow, that was enough.

We’ve been married for six years now. Each year, that sense of safety deepens. It’s quieter than passion, less dramatic than chaos, and infinitely more valuable. Marrying her is a choice I would make again and again, without hesitation.

So no, I’m not done wrestling with the past. I probably never will be. But this list? This list is proof that not everything I touched turned to ash. Some choices—against all odds—turned into joy. And that’s worth remembering.